


Property of Sherlock Holmes

by Trista_zevkia



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Time, Humor, M/M, POV Third Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 03:24:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trista_zevkia/pseuds/Trista_zevkia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock learns about labels and sticky notes, and adapts them to his needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Property of Sherlock Holmes

It started, as always, with people of small minds doing stupid things. Sherlock pulled his head out of the empty drawer in the morgue and fixed Molly on the point of his stare.

“Where is my leg?” 

“What leg?” Molly asked in a small voice. She knew Sherlock wasn’t referring to the two still attached to his body, but he didn’t even give her credit for that. 

“The leg I left in this drawer, to see how long the bruises take to rise under flesh infected with necrotizing fasciitis!” 

“I didn’t know we had a body with flesh eating disease.” 

“Sherlock.” John’s calm voice called from the door of the morgue where he stood, folder in one hand. 

“She threw away an experiment!” Sherlock’s voice had calmed, but Molly couldn’t tell. 

She was just glad John was there to take away Sherlock’s rage. As much as she lusted after Sherlock, Molly still feared him a little when he got in these moods. 

“I’ve told you before, Sherlock. In hospitals, police stations and other public locations, you have to label and identify your experiments.” 

“It was in a drawer she can’t reach.” Sherlock pouted, but his towering rage seemed to have gone. 

“If you’d ever worked for a living, you’d know shared fridges require labels on things.” 

“Really?” Sherlock perked up a little, as he always did when presented with new information. He’d dismiss it as irrelevant later, Molly knew that, but he was always interested in something new. 

“All sorts of things have been invented to label people’s lunches at work. Post-it notes saying ‘Property of John Watson: Do Not Eat’ don’t seem to work so people use tape and lockable boxes. You can even buy plastic bags with images of mold on them to scare away some people.” 

“Actually molded bags would work better.” 

“Very true.” John nodded, without giving away any sign of concern over that statement. “Come see what Lestrade gave us. See you later, Molly.” 

Molly smiled at John, and watched as he walked out. A mollified, curious Sherlock followed, wanting to look at that folder. Molly turned back to her work and paused. They hadn’t had a case with necrotizing fleshitis, so what was Sherlock doing with a leg infected with it? Molly made a note to have the drawers sterilized and moved back to her hit and run victim. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Onslow hadn’t felt he knew a lot of people, but once he got back from Afghanistan he kept running into people he did know. As such, he shouldn’t have been surprised to recognize the short, blonde man turning down Baker Street. Grinning, Onslow ran toward that figure. He could have called out a name, but he had a new found love of running. The man hadn’t gotten very far down the street when Onslow drew up to walk beside him. 

“Captain Watson.” He said, as casually as he could. Onslow knew though, from the way John had tensed and relaxed that the other man already knew it was him. 

“Corporal Newkirk.” John replied calmly. 

John had always been better at this game of formality than Onslow, so Onslow gave in and pulled the smaller man into a bear hug. Swinging him around, just because he could, Onslow was treated to a soft laugh from John. When Onslow finally set John down, he let himself take a good look at him. Something about the compact fighter had always made Onslow want to cuddle him. 

“John, you look wonderful, and maybe ready to punch something.” 

“I’m good, just irritated at my flatmate right now.” 

“Let me take you out to supper, and you can tell me all about it.” 

“I’d rather let you buy me supper and tell me all about how you’re doing. I don’t really want to talk about him right now.” 

A snort from a tall man behind them got both of their attention. “I hear Ultraviolet is good.” Having delivered this piece of advice, the tall man shoved his way between them and walked away. 

“Bloody London has gotten worse since I was here.” Onslow muttered, thinking about the things he could do to that scrawny berk. 

“You don’t know the half of it.” John muttered, shoulders tense as he watched the other man walk away. 

Onslow decided he needed to get his friend to relax. “What’s this Ultraviolet?” 

“New place, around the corner. I haven’t tried it.” 

“Now’s as good a time as any.” Tossing a friendly arm around John’s shoulders, Onslow propelled John forward with the weight of his arm. As he expected, John adjusted and lead the way, without moving out of his arms. 

Ultraviolet turned out to be a small, cozy place with a variety of foods. Just the kind of place that had a little of everything and was open night and day, so locals wouldn’t have to go far to find their favorites. The interior was a modern restaurant, unconnected with the images the name had brought up in Onslow’s mind. He’d expected some sort of rave and party vibe or crazy colors. Instead, the inclusion of ultraviolet lights about the place simply added an unearthly glow to the people inside. Different clothing materials reacted to the light in different ways, but with the normal lights on, it wasn’t overwhelming. 

John and Onslow sat, discussed the menu and ordered. Then Onslow talked about his prosthetic leg, and how the physical therapy had gotten rid of those two stone even the army couldn’t. Onslow didn’t mention what they both knew, that John had saved his life when the IED took the leg. Or before that, when Onslow had gotten into some trouble and been sent to clean the latrines. 

At three in the morning, the showers were supposed to be empty, as night patrol was still on duty and day patrol was still asleep. Thinking the shower had been left on or might be broken, Onslow had walked in without saying anything. He’d also walked in on a stranger in the shower, wanking furiously. John hadn’t lost his erection when he saw Onslow in his cubical, or when he saw Onslow’s obvious enjoyment of the sight of what he was doing. Closing the curtain, Onslow had fallen to his knees and sucked John off. John had returned with a hand job, and they’d gone their separate ways. After that, Onslow found he was more likely to do something stupid when the threatened punishment was cleaning the lats and showers again. 

John’s hours had been unpredictable, and Onslow knew better than to risk tracking the delicious man down. Only twice more had Onslow caught him the shower, but on each occasion they’d enjoyed the time together. If Onslow hadn’t been in danger of bleeding out, he’d have blushed when he realized who was holding his life in his skilled hands. 

Out of the army because of his lost leg, Onslow had an on-again, off-again thing with a guy he knew. They were off right now, and John really did have skilled hands. They talked about little things, long after they’d finished their meal. John was the first to slide his chair back, and give an embarrassed sort of smile to Onslow. 

“Must dash to the loo, so don’t stick me with the check.” 

Said in good humor, which Onslow shared until John was walking away from him. Onslow blinked, but he was still seeing the same thing. He tried not to let the irritation grow as he waited for John to return, but he wasn’t completely successful. At least it wasn’t too obvious when John sat back down. 

“John, what’s your relationship with Sherlock?” 

“He’s my irritating flatmate. He’s been pissy all day because he left his violin bow on my bed and I didn’t see it until I laid on it. Why was he even in my room? I sure wouldn’t set a foot into his nuclear waste dump of a room.” John took in a lungful of air and let it out slowly, dissipating his anger. “I was having a perfectly nice time until you brought him up.” 

“Just flatmates?” 

“Yeah. Sometimes I help him with his work, but I sure don’t get any respect or consideration for doing so.” 

“You don’t steal his clothes or anything, do you?” 

“Even if I could get into that skinny bugger’s clothes, I wouldn’t want to wear all that fancy stuff. Looks uncomfortable, though he makes it work.” John paused in rolling his eyes to focus on Onslow. “When did I tell you his name?” 

“You didn’t. I hate to tell you this, John, but I don’t think he sees you as just a flatmate.” 

John licked his lips, looking like he was about to get into a hummer and head for the front lines. “What makes you say that?” 

“Take off your jumper and I’ll show you.” 

John took a good look around first. It wasn’t modesty, Onslow knew that, John was looking for any threats that might move in when he blinded by the jumper coming off. When it was off, Onslow turned it and held it out so the back showed. Onslow could almost see the words reflected in John’s wide, staring eyes. 

**Property of Sherlock**

Without a word, John stood and turned his back to Onslow. 

Onslow took a look. “Yes, it’s on that shirt too.” 

John sat back down, but with a fire in his eyes that made Onslow sad. John was beautiful like this, but he’d never been this way for Onslow. Whatever him and this Sherlock had going on, Onslow knew he’d never be a part of it. Handing back the jumper, Onslow watched John’s chest disappear into it. 

“At least he didn’t chloroform me and tattoo it on my arse.” John was trying for a joke to ease the tension, but there was genuine relief in his voice, as if he really believed his flatmate was capable of such a thing. 

“John, are you sure this Sherlock is good for you?” 

“No, but that doesn’t mean I can give it up.” 

“You’ve got my number, if you ever need a couch to crash on or anything.” 

“Thanks Onslow. For now I need to find Sherlock and have this out with him.” 

The waitress drifted over, pitcher of ice water in her hand. “Anything else, gentlemen?” 

Onslow was about to ask for the check, when John spoke. 

“Who owns this place?” 

The waitress shrugged. “I’ve never met him, but the manager says he has a lot of workers in the area who complained about finding food on weird schedules.” 

“Thank you.” John said, the sigh heavy in his voice. The waitress’ statement seemed to mean something to John, even if it confused Onslow. 

The waitress left, and Onslow hoped it was to get their ticket. “John, don’t wait around to walk me home. I know you’re a gentleman and all, but you’ve got troubles on your mind.” 

That got a small smile of appreciation out of John. “Thanks again. I’ll see you around.” 

John stood and put on his coat before heading out. Onslow watched him walk away, and didn’t have the heart to tell him the words were on his coat too. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

A small indicator on his desk flashed and Mycroft considered the work before him. Nothing there was so pressing or complicated that he couldn’t risk diverting his attention with a little music. The violin in question had always had a location transmitter in its case, as it was the one possession Sherlock cared about. 

Then Dr. Watson had shown up, encouraging Sherlock to put his things away. It didn’t work on anything else the two men owned, but Sherlock now put his violin away. It might be fear that John would clean the instrument with bleach, but even Sherlock gave the doctor more credit than that. Whatever the reason, the case was now opened whenever Sherlock wanted to play. Mycroft had his men install another device on the case that sent a signal, letting Mycroft hear his brother playing without the intention of irritating him. 

Watson might complain about the torturous sounds Sherlock made, but Sherlock could also have played with any orchestra in the world; if it weren’t for the fact that orchestras tended to be made up of people. Sherlock’s skill on the violin had allowed him to make it through two and a half rehearsals before the rest of the orchestra threatened to walk out if he stayed another minute. Now, instead of radio on demand, Mycroft had the world’s most demanding radio. 

Pulling up the surveillance cameras of 221 Baker Street, Mycroft adjusted the volume to listen as Sherlock worked his way through several pieces. He was halfway through Scheherazade when the new bow made an alarming shriek. Glancing up, Mycroft saw John had pulled the bow away from the strings and was staring at Sherlock. 

“Sherlock, if you can’t get that stuff out of my clothes, you’re buying me a whole new wardrobe.” 

“Don’t be insulting, of course I know how to get it out.” 

“Insulting? You don’t know insulting until you show up on a date labeled as someone else’s property!” 

“That wasn’t an insult!” 

“What do you mean by that? Am I supposed to be grateful you didn’t get me a dog collar?” 

“Don’t be dull.” 

“So I should be exciting, like you. How did you convince Mycroft to open a theme restaurant for his minions?” 

Mycroft hadn’t really expected his name to get dragged into this, but any thought of not watching the fight disappeared the instant his name was mentioned. Though, admittedly, the thought of not watching was very tiny and insignificant before his name was came into it. 

“It was his idea! I told him to keep his minions out of our lives.” Sherlock replied to John’s question, in his normal superior tones. “I simply repurposed it.” 

“And you just used it to make me look an arse on dates?” 

“Yes, John. I have nothing better to do with my time than make you miserable.” 

“Finally you admit it!” 

“Though I would like to point out it was the first time you went there.” 

“On your recommendation! You’ve suggested other places before, probably while the ink was drying on my clothes. If Onslow hadn’t had the decency to point it out to me, I’d hate to think how many girls I’d have taken there!” 

Mycroft repressed a sigh. John was a doctor and a really smart man, but Sherlock was right. John looked, but he did not see. He looked at Sherlock jerking away from him to carefully place his violin in the case, but he didn’t see why Sherlock wasn’t replying. 

“Damn it, Sherlock. Onslow thought I was stealing your clothes, how does that make me look?” 

“You saved his life when he lost his leg. He gets out of hospital and his first thought is shagging you. That’s not going to change because he thinks you need money!” 

“I was not his first thought, we just bumped into each other today.” 

“You’re not denying he was thinking about shagging you!” 

“I’m not you; I can’t read people’s minds!” 

“Clearly! Otherwise you’d understand you’re supposed to explore your bisexuality…” Sherlock trailed off before he could add the ‘with me’, but John was already yelling back. 

“That’s not exactly written on me, so you’d better have a damn good deduction there.” 

“Your private files that you edit before posting on your blog are filled with descriptions of the people we interact with, both sexes given accurate descriptions without shying away from physical attributes that might make the extremely heterosexual nervous. When you’re not doctoring people, you observe both sexes as you look for potential mates. You stare at my arse with the same rapt fascination as you do Donavan’s, though you’ve never given Anderson a second glance, which I thank you for. You hate the way Donavan talks to me, even though you know it doesn’t bother me, so I know you’d never actually date her. It made it difficult to determine your sexuality because you seemed more interested in the person than the body, you just didn’t mind looking when it was presented to you. Then, to make it even more of a challenge, I found you spent most of your time, no matter who you were talking to or around, most of the time you were looking at me.” 

John had calmed down considerably during Sherlock’s monologue, but he still took a deep breath before replying. “So seeing all that, and being the rational man you are, you decided that labeling me would be more productive than talking to me?” 

Mycroft’s fingers found his phone, intending to text Sherlock the right thing to say. For once, Sherlock got there first. Though, being Sherlock, he couldn’t simply say that he loved John. 

“What was I supposed to say? I know you’re not gay but would you mind shagging me into the floor?” 

“You could have tired, ‘John, I’m no longer married to my work’ or ‘I’d like to cheat on The Work with one John Watson’, genius!” 

“You could have not corrected one single person when they suggested we were a couple!” 

“You could stop yelling and kiss me!” 

“Same to you!” Sherlock yelled back and there was silence for the blink of an eye. Then they were moving together, teeth and noses doing more kissing than lips until they found the angle that made it work. The growls and moans coming through the surveillance equipment were not something Mycroft needed to hear, so he switched off the equipment and sent a text to Lestrade. 

_Sherlock and John have decided to date. -MH_

_Thank Christ!_

Came the immediate reply, followed a short time later by another text. 

_Now I don’t have to figure out how to tell John about what Sherlock’s written on all his clothes. Anderson’s taken to bringing a pocket black light to every crime scene, just to laugh at John._

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Head still trying to come to terms with what they’d just done; John stared at the sleeping man sharing the couch with him. Sherlock Holmes was apparently the man John had searched three continents for. He’d always had John’s heart, but John’s brain had convinced him that he couldn’t have this part of it, the sex and cuddles. It would take his brain a while to catch up, and it would help to have a few more facts. 

Sherlock’s phone was on the coffee table, which had been shoved away in their aggressive stripping and moving to the couch. John just managed to snag it without waking Sherlock, whose bum was covered with John’s jumper. John’s naughty bits were covered by Sherlock’s matching bits, the thought of which threatened to derail John’s thinking ability. Sliding Sherlock’s phone on and selecting the contact ‘Manipulative’ John hit send. Two rings, just long enough for the manipulative man on the other end to turn on the camera, and he answered. 

“Greetings, Dr. Watson.” 

“Did you open a restaurant on Baker Street so our bodyguards would have a place to hang out and eat?” 

“Perhaps.” Mycroft prevaricated as naturally as most people breathed. “Would that bother you, Dr. Watson?” 

“Not really. What would bother me is if a man claiming to be sane used Sherlock’s advice on interior design.” 

“He hacked into the computerized order system and changed the name of the restaurant, before ordering the ultraviolet lights. I am given to understand a tall man came in and placed those lights precisely as needed to flood the interior with ultraviolet.” 

“An insane man.” 

“That is only a guideline, as he diagnosed himself.” 

“Feel free to take the lights down at any time, since I’m going to save everybody some time and get it tattooed on my forehead.” 

“Understood, Dr. Watson.” Mycroft disconnected, but not before John heard the smug amusement leaking out of his voice. 

John knew he was fucked, but at least now he was fucked in the good way. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל


End file.
